


Heavensent, Hellish Descent

by michael_b



Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body Horror, Crossover, Dimension Travel, Five Nights At Freddy's: Fazbear Frights: Room For One More, Five Nights at Freddy's: Fazbear Frights Series, Five Nights at Freddy's: Sister Location, Gen, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:54:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29821794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michael_b/pseuds/michael_b
Summary: An unlikely ally rescues Stanley from the minireenas that have taken over his body, and he discovers he's not as alone in his strange experiences as he thought.
Relationships: Michael Afton & Stanley (Five nights at Freddy's: Fazbear Frights)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 26





	Heavensent, Hellish Descent

**Author's Note:**

> You ever get the most random plot idea and spend months writing seven thousand (ish) words about it? No? Just me then. Here's... The fic no one asked for but I had plenty of fun writing anyway! Cheers.
> 
> Spoiler-heavy for the Fazbear Frights books and Room For One More from Fazbear Frights #3, 1:35 AM in particular, as the fic picks up exactly where the original story ends.
> 
> The first sentence of this fic is also the last sentence of the original story.
> 
> Also posted on my FNAF amino account: http://aminoapps.com/p/nfos52

_Stanley couldn't help it: he opened his mouth to scream._

***

The doll giggles. "Yes!" it chirps. "That's it! Open just a little wider, and I'll fit inside!"

No matter how badly Stanley wants to believe that, he knows it is not going to fit. 

Skin is not meant to stretch this far. His is already pulled as taut as it will go, deathly pale and translucent at the peaks of those... Horrible lumps of foreign joints dressed with his own stolen flesh. Is it a wooden elbow or a leg that's pushing from the inside? 

Stanley wills his heart to cease its pounding. Slow down or stop beating entirely, he doesn't care, as long as it stops thrashing against his ribs like a caged bird. What will happen if —when— it finally breaks out? 

That heart attack he'd been so afraid of seems merciful now. A death swift and painless, before the last doll wrenches his jaw open and forces its way inside even though there's not—  
—enough—  
_—space._

Stanley closes his eyes and, for the first time in his life, there, sunken to his knees, he prays.

The sacred words taste wrong coming from his mouth, battered and desecrated. They cling like thorns to his throat, his tongue, his bloodied lips— "Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name..."

"Do not be afraid," a voice calls out, from somewhere above him. "I am here to help you."

Stanley's pulse stutters, but he cannot run even if he wanted to. Not with the cold, clammy numbness that started at his extremities and is slowly claiming the rest of him. 

He is not sure how long he has before either the doll reaches his face or the paralysis does, so he makes quick work of inclining his head to look at—

A man, covered in a big, shapeless cloak stands at the entranceway on top of the stairs. Or— Something that resembles a man, in the same way those demons resembled dolls.

Or, maybe in the exact opposite way. 

The full moon hovers just in the right position behind him to frame his head with a soft gleam. In Stanley's dimming vision, it looks almost like a halo.

Could this be... An angel? Could his prayers have been answered?

The doll laughs. It's not the cheery, musical giggle from before. It's something different, nervous and frazzled. 

"You're back!" it says, too high-pitched to be genuine excitment. "We missed you!"

The figure chuckles in a mockery of the doll's own giggle: a sound as bitter as the doll's was fearful. "Missed your chance to hitch me as your ride out, you mean. I should have known you wouldn't give up. This is your final warning: get away from him."

The doll inches nearer, now so close to him that Stanley can see it even through the shadows closing in on his peripheral. He doesn't break eye contact with the figure.

"Please," he pleads, quietly. It hurts to speak. "Don't—" he swallows hard, wincing. "Don't let it get to me."

"Leave him be," the man under the hood commands. He begins gliding down the stairs with grace, his gaze never straying from the doll. The darkness claiming every inch of space the feeble lamp cannot reach does not appear to deter him.

It's as though he has walked down this exact corridor more than enough times to learn it by heart.

"Leave," he repeats when he reaches the last step. "Or I will make you."

"You're no fun!" the doll shouts with a theatrical sob. Stanley shudders; if the cursed thing had a breath, he would be able to feel it against his feverish skin. "We like him! We're keeping him!"

Even as it says that though, Stanley can hear it scurry off, deeper into the facility's labyrinth of halls. 

"I will return!" it shrieks in sing-song from within its nest. "I want to stay with you! Forever!"

"Forever! Forever!" a doll from his belly pipes up. Each time it chants it, another tiny voices joins in, until they're all saying it in unison, beating their fists against his insides in the rhythm. Again and again and again and a g a i n—

"How many?" the figure's breaks through the haze of their hellish chorus. Stanley clings to it like a lifeline, grabs onto the last remaining slivers of his lucidity and manages to answer:

"M-many. Ten?"

"Lord almighty..." The figure mutters, immediately followed by a curse. "Don't talk then. And stay still. One wrong move and you could end with one of their arms lodged in your guts. Try to breathe slowly, now. You cannot afford to expand your lungs too much." 

As though Stanley has the strength left to panic. He rolls his eyes, partly in frustration at the useless advice and partly in a momentary lapse of consciousness. 

The figure kneels next to him, brushes his damp with sweat hair away from his forehead. Stanley tries to sneak a glance under the hood, but it's all a blur, fading in and out of focus. All he can make out is the unusually reflective white of his irises.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs. "This is all my fault. I should have kept more diligent count. I should have noticed they weren't with the others..."

It's gentle... Comforting... Coaxing Stanley's eyes to slip shut. He is tired, so tired... If he could just... Sleep...

"Oh, good lord, don't sleep, stay with me now." The voice's tone shifts, more pressing now, more urgent. It takes a shuddering breath. "We'll get you out of this, alright? I was meant to return here. I was meant to save you —Another mistake I must fix. And I will fix it. Don't worry. I will not fail my purpose."

Stanley can't quite make sense of what the figure is telling him, other than the fact he's making sounds that probably should mean something to him, but he can understand that the man is worried well enough. He does his best to offer him an encouraging smile.

"Now, then." The man clears his throat with an air of finality. "I'll remove them — But not yet. It's too dangerous while they're still moving. We must wait until dawn. They're only active at night, do you understand me?" 

Stanley doesn't, but he doesn't want to disappoint the stranger who saved him, so he nods regardless. 

"Good. I'll give you something to help with the pain in the meantime. Do you have anything sharp around?"

The random change of topic confuses Stanley, but then again, most words have been reduced to vaguely familiar sounds in his mind at this point. Perhaps, if he was more present, the connecting thread would be perfectly visible to him.

He tilts his head towards the keychain hooked to his belt. Amongst other miscellaneous charms hanging from it, it's got the pocket-sized swiss army knife Amber had gotten him for his last birthday. 

"Keychain," Stanley helpfully elaborates, although he suspects the resulting rasp barely resembled human speech, let aside any recognizable word.

The man, miraculously, understands. Stanley hears the tinkling of his keys being tinkered with, then a sharp hiss of pain, and finally, the man's voice: "Drink. It'll help you relax. No time to explain."

Stanley could care less about an explanation. He's long past the point of being picky about what he puts into his body.

He doesn't even bother to open his eyes when the man nudges at his dry, shaking lips. Just obediently opens his mouth, and drinks.

No amount of explaining could have prepared him for... Whatever it is that's trickling down onto his tongue, sticking to his gullet like mucus.

It's thick, in the unnatural way curdled milk clots up, and tastes even fouler. It's got the coppery tint of blood, but the kind of putrid sweetness rotten fruit unleashes only after biting into it.

A disturbing combination, but, more disturbingly, not a foreign one. Oozing from the toxic waste bin Stanley has been trying (and failing) to ignore every night he clocked into work is this very stench. 

He gags, bile rising up his tattered esophagus, but the man clamps his palm over Stanley's mouth before he can puke. 

"Don't spit it out," he says, begs almost. "I need you to trust me."

The sickening flavor is pungent enough to have, if only for a moment, dissipated the fog circling Stanley's head. He seizes the clarity, clutches it tightly as he pushes against his every instinct and—

He gulps.

The relief is instant. Instead of the throbbing sting of the strange substance gliding against shredded, swollen and inflamed tissue as he swallows, he feels... 

Nothing. Nothing but a blessed, all-encompassing numbness. 

It smothers the pain, suffocates the discomfort and the nausea, until all Stanley is left with is complete blankness. He breathes it in, lets the void replace the crushing pressure in his lungs.

Something else hitches its way in, too. An exhaustion so heavy it's almost tangible, expanding inside him like a supernova, taking up all the empty space. It pulls him down, down, until the world is muffled, muted, somewhere far away.

The feed of the world cuts off all at once, and Stanley's out.

***

When he comes to, he's outside. Stanley knows as much before he even opens his eyes.

There's grass under his fingertips. Stanley plucks a fistful and brings it close to his face: it smells like rich soil and morning dew. 

The sunlight is too fresh to offset the chill that nips at his nose and cheeks, but it's dusted away the dullness of the dark, turned the colors vibrant and bright and— Alive. 

He's really alive. 

Alive, and alone.

Frankly? Stanley wants to get up and walk home, hop into the shower and not get out until the hot water has washed the memories down the drain. He'll scrub and scrub until his skin is raw and his brain is convinced he imagined it all: the dolls, the hooded figure, the spoiled blood flooding his mouth. And, after he's done, he'll call his boss and quit. 

With his plan in place, Stanley feels somewhat more in control. By tomorrow, he'll have put this behind him. He'll wake up and it will all feel like a bad dream. 

There's only one problem: Stanley cannot get up.

Or, well — Technically, he can move just fine. It's just that the long, gaping incision starting at his thorax and extending across his torso to his belly button might make matters a tad more difficult.

His button-up shirt, he finds, has been removed and haphazardly tied around his stomach. If it was an attempt at a makeshift bandage, it... Wasn't a particularly good one, considering most of the wound has been left uncovered. 

That would explain why he's so cold, at least. 

Stanley experimentally wiggles his fingers, clenches his fist. The muscles oblige without resisting. They shift under his skin, flex like they're making themselves comfortable again. Like they're reclaiming their territory, now that—

Now that Stanley doesn't have to share his body with the dolls.

Mesmerized, he reaches to touch his incision. He craves —needs— to confirm it, to check for sure—

"Don't touch that!" 

Stanley jolts, pulled out of his stupor by the voice he's come to recognize as the mysterious man's who saved him. 

What was he intending to do, anyway? Stick his hand inside his entrails and dig around for hidden dolls?

Lord, he must have lost a lot of blood.

The man rushes to his side, hunched over to keep his face concealed. He has his hands buried under the layers of his burly cloak. "I didn't—" he pauses to catch his breath, "—expect you to be awake. I removed them, but— Had to—" he heaves, coughing, "—return inside... Find something to stitch you up with... Came back up as... Fast as I could. The layout... Is so different than I remember... Got lost. Sorry."

Stanley can't help the smile that twitches at the corners of his lips.  
" 'S okay," he mutters. "Glad you didn't up and leave me. Did—" A twinge of pain shoots up his sternum, and Stanley grimaces. "Did you find anything?" 

The man hesitates. "In a sense." He sighs, suspiciously apologetic. "I... Found a stapler in the security office. I know it's not ideal, but—" 

"Vivisecting me with a swiss army knife isn't what I'd call ideal, either," Stanley points out, raising a brow. At least, he thinks he's raising a brow; sensation hasn't fully returned to his body yet. "Long as it gets the job done." 

"If you're certain..." The figure mumbles, yet makes no attempt to move. "... I apologize for what's about to follow. I thought... I was sure this location had been demolished. It — Must've been bought out since. If I'd known earlier..." 

Stanley chuckles, then sucks in the breeze through ground teeth. "Yeah, yeah, apology accepted — Now, you gonna put your actions where your mouth is or should I go back to minding my dying business?" 

He means it as a joke, but even Stanley himself can hear the anxious edge to his voice. 

The man clears his throat. "Right, yes. I was just thinking—" He emits a little nervous noise, fidgeting under his pile of clothes. "Stanley, there's something else you should know."

"Does it have anything to do with—" Stanley's voice cracks, possibly alongside with one of his ribs. "—With how you know my name? Actually, whatever," he grunts, "it can wait. If I'm going to deal with revelations, I'd rather do it with all my blood."

The man twitches. "It— Uh— Ah, to hell with it, there's no time. Don't freak out, okay?"

With that particularly encouraging preface, he sticks his arms out of the cloak, and pulls his hood off.

Stanley says, "Huh."

The man —his skin a deep, bruised purple, peeling from the bone— meets his eyes with his own. If they could be called eyes, that is. Staring back at Stanley are two hollow sockets, a glowing white dot at the center of each. 

"I didn't want you to have to see this," he says, and continues before Stanley can answer, "Brace yourself. This is going to hurt."

Deftly, he presses the stapler into Stanley's flesh. 

Stanley scrunches his nose, but manages to speak through the pain: "I'm not afraid—" he releases a sharp breath, "—Of a little pain. Not anymore. You understand, don't you?"

He half-expects his curiosity to earn him another staple in lieu of an answer, but the man shrugs, scratching his hollow, flaky cheek with his free hand. His fingertips are bare, charred bone up to the first knuckle like a used candle, as though the skin that was once there melted off. "I... Suppose I do. Deep breath, now." 

Just because Stanley expected the second staple, doesn't mean it hurt any less. He's not giving up, though. There's a story similar to his in this man's empty eyes, and Stanley needs to hear it. Needs to feel less alone in the strange, cruel world he accidentally crashed into.

The old Stanley might have been content with the scraps he's been thrown. The old Stanley who was happy to settle. Who, actually, wasn't even happy about it, just didn't care enough to change it. Who had no aspirations, nothing to gain and nothing to lose. 

That old Stanley is, nearly literally, dead. And the new Stanley? 

Well, the new Stanley is dying to know what this man's story is.

"What happened to you?" he asks as soon as his brain can process any thought more eloquent than 'ouch'. "Conversation helps me ignore the pain," he explains at the man's glare.

It's... Mostly true. And, more importantly, it works. 

"...It's not too different from your case: something decided to borrow my body, in this place. It didn't look like this then, or... Have this name, but it served the same purpose. No matter how they described the job to you, it's a containment facility. And I..." He clicks his tongue, a little bashful. "I helped one of the inhabitants break out. Deep breath, will you?"

The stapler clicks. Stanley bites back a scream.

"Helped?" He forces the question out through ground teeth. "You did it willingly? Why?" 

The man glances away. "We'll build up to that. Don't get ahead of yourself."

Stanley's face burns with shame. "Yes, yes, 'course, my bad... You said it was only one, right? How come I don't look like... Well, you, when I had..." He stops. "How many dolls were in me?"

"Twelve." The man informs him curtly. "But they were small. The... Thing I fostered was metal and larger than me. Deep breath." 

Stanley has to curl his nails into the dirt to keep from flinching as the staple latches on.

"Alright," he says. "There's no way something that large got in through your mouth. How on earth–" 

"Mechanical claw to the abdomen." The man gives a toothless, humorless grin. "Scooped out enough of my innards for it to fit its arms inside and carve the rest of me out, I think. I can't be sure. I was dead before the claw had retreated."

"D— What? How?"

The man chuckles softly. "I couldn't quite believe it myself, when I... Was brought back. It's a long and gruesome story, one I vowed never to speak of again. I wanted it to die with my father... But it seems his evil deeds have outlived him. You deserve to know the name of the beast you faced."

He sighs, sets the stapler aside. "Remnant, my father called it. Others have dubbed it the soul. It is what's left behind after the body perishes. My father, he... Discovered a way to harvest it. He killed people, and he used their souls as fuel."

Stanley doesn't want to, but he asks anyway: "Fuel for... What?"

"Mechanical creatures of his creation. He thought he was brilliant, an innovative genius. He thought he was revolutionizing the art of imitating life. But in reality, he was a monster. And I didn't find out, until it was already too late. Until the claw had already infused a part of my sister's soul with mine."

A horrible realization dawns on Stanley. "That... Thing you made me drink..." 

The man's chin is trembling as he nods. "I'm deeply sorry. It was my last resort. You already had some in your system, but I doubted it would be enough..."

Stanley frowns. "Had some inside me—" He cuts himself off, suddenly understanding. "The dolls. They're your dad's expiriments too?" 

The man gives a slight shake of his head, his forehead wrinkling in what Stanley suspects is an attempt at conveying disgust with the distinctive lack of facial features at his disposal. "No. My father was more cruel than he believed himself to be, but less intelligent. Tell me, are you familiar of the feeling that a part of you is tied to a certain place? A specific memory perhaps?"

Stanley thinks about his father's funeral, of the dragging weight in his chest as he watched the coffin descend into the ground. As though a part of him was being buried right there alongside his dad.

"Yeah," he whispers. "I know it all too well."

"Then," the man says, with a sadness and a compassion that resonates right in Stanley's center and echoes through him, "you understand that is feels like much more than a metaphor. You felt in your body, in your heart. Didn't you?"

Stanley wordlessly nods.

"There is a reason why cemeteries feel haunted." The man holds Stanley's gaze. "It's because they are. Not by people, but by memories. Remnant, it turns out, leaves its mark on everything it touches. Monuments of tragedy are drenched in it. They soak it up, and in particularly high concentrations... It can act in the way my father intended it: to fuel otherwise inanimate vessels. Do you understand?"

Stanley wishes he didn't. "So... The dolls are alive?"

"No." There's something cautionary in the man's snappy quip. "Make no mistake, though they seem it, they possess no real soul. They run on agony. Suffering and fear given form. They are in eternal pain, and their sole drive is to rid themselves of it by inflicting it on someone else."

Stanley stirs to shake the goosebumps off, and immediately regrets it as the gash on his stomach voices its disagreement. 

"Stanley!" the man cries. "We got carried away. It'd be wiser to resume the discussion after you're all... Err. Stapled up."

He undoes the knot of Stanley's jacket, reluctantly, as if he's afraid Stanley will tell him he'd rather die than have his decaying fingers touch him.

Stanley shivers. "I-it's okay," he hurries to clarify. "Just cold." 

He receives a flicker of a smile in turn, as the man grabs the stapler. 

What a trust exercise, Stanley thinks while he's being sewn up, to let someone poke around your guts before you even learn his name. 

Speaking of names—

"So, uh, how did you know my name? 'S telepathy another side-effect of that... Remnant?" 

The man snorts lightly over the clasp of the stapler. "I'm afraid not," he says. "I borrowed your ID card, to get back in."

"Ah," Stanley remarks. "Bummer."

Silence stretches between them as the man finishes sewing him up.

"Done," the man announces, leaning back to inspect his work. "It's Michael, by the way." 

Stanley blinks, nods, and realizes he has no idea what the man is talking about. "What?"

"My name," the man —Michael— says. "Forgive me for the late introduction. It's been... A long time since I last spoke to another human being." He sighs, fidgeting with the jaws of the stapler. "Even longer since I used my real name."

Stanley hazards a venture into an upright position, and makes it as far as leaning against his elbows. A marked improvement nonetheless. 

"Why didn't you?" he asks. "Michael is a pretty name. Like the archangel." 

Like the angel he'd prayed for.

Michael gives a lackluster smirk. "Exactly. A condemned man does not deserve to bear a holy name. Not after what I've done."

Stanley wants to ask what could possibly be worse than what Michael sacrificed his life to stop, but something about the torment swirling in his voice makes him hesitate. Instead, he asks, "What will happen to the dolls?"

Clambering to his feet, Michael dusts his cloak off. Now that he's not slouching, he towers over Stanley, and not just because he's still sitting. "We'll burn them," he informs him breezily. "It's the only way I've found to break Remnant down."

Stanley cocks his head. "Is that what happened to your hands?" 

He slaps his own hand over his mouth, scrunching his nose. "Sorry, I didn't— It just slipped out—" 

"No offense taken," Michael assures him, although something pained flashed in his expression before he could contain it. "It's only fair that you'll have questions. I never wanted to bring anyone else into it, but for better or for worse, this is your business now as much as it is mine." 

Stanley frowns. "That's not why I—" 

"Don't worry about me," Michael interrupts him. There's a sharpness to his tone, an urgency Stanley cannot quite make sense of. "I am not a survivor. I'm merely a prisoner of my mistakes. Until I repent, no amount of flames will convince God to accept my soul. Heed my warning, Stanley, and don't play with fire. If you like living, it'll hurt you. If you don't, it will never hurt enough to cleanse you of your sins. Whatever you may wish to run from will follow you. Now then, do you have a spare lighter by any chance?"

And just like that, Michael's walls are back up. Stanley purses his lips, discontented. 

"You were in the office. I know you must have seen it with my cigarettes on the desk. Why ask me then?" 

Michael shrugs, retrieving Stanley's lighter from a hidden fold in his robes. "Just wanted to see if you'd admit it, kid. Smoking's a terrible habit, you know." 

Irritation swells in Stanley's chest. Michael is, once again, deflecting. So be it. Stanley humours him, though not without considerable frustration. 

"It's not a 'habit', alright? I bought my first pack two weeks ago, and it's still unopened."

Michael clicks the lighter open and hums, watching the flame twist and twirl in its graceful dance. "What happened two weeks ago?" 

The answer Stanley wants to give is, "It's not a conversation if you're the only one with questions, it's an interrogation," but he holds his tongue, and grumbles, "Who said anything's got to have happened? Just wanted to try it out."

Michael actually has the audacity to laugh. "Come on, I wasn't born yesterday. I picked smoking up after my brother... After he passed away. Kept telling myself it helped me with the grief — the chronic nightmares suggested otherwise. What's your excuse?"

Stanley scowls, because Michael is right. So much for keeping his wits about himself from now on. 

"Girlfriend dumped me," he says with a dismissive gesture. "Wasn't actually gonna light any of 'em up,  
'kay? Just... Wanted to do something reckless." He chukles bitterly. "Dad's probably rolling over in his grave. Lost him to cancer, and here I went throwing my money away to buy it in a convenient little package." 

"Reckless' just human nature. Count yourself lucky to have stepped away before the point of no return. A lot of us didn't have that luxury."

Stanley regards him with what's admittedly unabashed smugness. 

"Did... You steal that line from The Immortal And The Restless? If you're gonna sell me cryptic bullshit, at least make it original." 

Michael's features contort into a frankly hilarious expression, half-embarassed, half-surprised. 

"You... Know that show?"

Stanley snorts. " 'Fraid you got unlucky. Bit of a vintage show fanatic, myself. Point is, whatever you're beating yourself up over, it can't be that bad if you need to use soap opera dialogue to convince me. Just saying, you've got skill in dramatic deliveries, might as well stop wasting it on acting like a martyr. You could be getting paid for this."

Michael's expression darkens at once, as though Stanley flicked a switch. "I would advice you," he drawls, and it's clear that what he's actually doing is threatening him, "to keep quiet on matters you know nothing about."

But Stanley doesn't budge. 

"Look, I was in the debate team in highschool. What you're doing is called intimidating the opponent and it would get you disqualified. Wanna give it another shot?" 

"Remnant is supposed to regenerate cells," Michael speaks over him, like he's not even listening. "It's how it keeps someone alive for eternity. You know what that comes with, Stanley? Superhumanly fast healing. Before I went into the fire I was recovering. Slowly, but surely. But after... It all stopped. I'm no longer improving. If anything, I'm getting worse. Tell me, what is that if not a clear message from the divine that I do not deserve salvation yet? That I'm being punished, and my sentence is not over yet?"

"Oh, I don't know!" Stanley exclaims, his temper coming to a boil. "Maybe it's the fact that you got burned to a crisp? Fire doesn't usually give people a nice tan. It kills them! Remnant is the only reason why you didn't die!" 

"But I should have!" Michael presses on. "The Remnant should have evaporated. I should be dead. I should have been dead years ago, really. I'm an anomaly, Stanley, don't you see? This is divine intervention. Being alive is my own hell, just like dying was my father's."

"There you go again with that," Stanley groans. "What kind of God would deal the same fate for a murderer and for the man who dedicated his life to stopping him?"

Michael scoffs. "That's where you're wrong Stanley: those two aren't mutually exclusive. And I'll prove it to you. Here."

He chucks Stanley's cellphone at him, and he scrambles to catch it before it hits the ground.

"You had this in your pocket. It's got access to the internet, does it not?"

Stanley blinks at him. "Sure does. It's also got a glass screen that you almost just shattered. What gives?"

Michael gives him a petty shrug. "Consider it physiotherapy. You need to keep your reflexes sharp, make sure none of your nerves got fried."

"Sure, whatever," Stanley mutters as he enters his password, "What'd you want me to look up?"

Michael's expression has a certain complacency about it, as he replies: "My brother. Evan Afton."

He makes a dramatic pause, like this is some big reveal, but the name is not one Stanley has heard before. Even if he had, he wouldn't give Michael the satisfaction of showing it.

The first result his search returns is an article. He skims it over and comes away none the wiser: "I'm sorry for your loss, but... I still don't get what point you were trying to make?" 

Michael gives him a grim, victorious smile. "He's dead because of me, Stanley. I killed him." 

Stanley pulls a face. "You planted the bomb in his car?" 

For once, Michael seems like he hadn't accounted for that reaction. 

"What? What are you talking about? There was no bomb, or car. Evan was too young to drive when he died. It must be a coincidence, someone with the same name. Try me instead," he says. "That's bound to settle this... Petulant debate. You'll see me for what I truly am."

Stanley rolls his eyes. "Have it your way... Same last name as before?" 

"Correct," Michael says, cold and snappy. "Just another thing I inherited from my father."

Stanley shakes his head, but complies regardless. This time, the top page is a business website.

"Woah," he says, genuinely impressed. "You ran a business in Europe? Props to you, in your place I would've never traded all that for— Uh, this. Even if my dad asked me to. And my dad wasn't even a murderer! He was pretty great all things considered."

Michael clenches his fist, and there's the crackling of snapping bone. "This is not funny, Stanley. Admit it already: I was right. You think I'm a freak, like I've been telling you from the very start."

Stanley shakes his hair out his eyes. "Sound like I'm joking to you?" He turns his phone around, shows Michael the photo of a tall, lean man in a suit with black, sleek hair and blue eyes, posing next to the company's logo. "Is this not you?"

Michael takes one glimpse at it, and, if it's even possible for a walking corpse, he pales.

"That's— It can't be..." He pinches the bridge of his nose, speaking every word more and more quietly. "It's me, but also not. I never made it to that age alive— The... Incident happened when I was still a teenager. Barely twenty. And yet... He's me. Down to the scar across the nose. He's me if I had never done my father's deeds. Does that mean..." 

He sweeps the phone from Stanley's grip and furiously types something in.

"Evan," he whispers. "It's really him. Him if I hadn't taken his chance to grow up away. But... How? It's— It's like this is—" 

"—A parallel universe." Stanley cuts in. "Is that really so impossible? After everything we know now to be real? You said you stopped healing after the fire, right? What if... Michael, what if that's because you didn't survive?"

Michael's eye holes grow wider. "You think this— Is the afterlife?"

Stanley makes a noncommittal sound. "Not 'the' afterlife, but maybe... 'An' afterlife? Your afterlife. Maybe someone, or something, thought you needed to see that your brother did get a chance at growing up, somewhere."

Michael sniffles, and that's when Stanley sees the black goo gathered at the corners of his eyes. "It says here he had a son. I could've had a nephew. A nephew I never got to meet..." He's full-on sobbing by now, choking on his words. "All because of a stupid prank. I was young and angry at the world. Angry at my mom for leaving, angry at my dad for working all the time, angry at my siblings for taking up his attention. It was a freakish accident, I swear I never meant to hurt him, I just—" 

"Hey," Stanley interrupts him, more softly this time, more gently. "That's all I need to know. You don't have to tell me everything if you're not ready. I believe you." He puts emphasis on that, repeats it for good measure. "I believe you, Michael. But you've got to believe yourself too. You couldn't have predicted the outcome. You think my sister and I weren't constantly at each other's throats? The only difference is that we got away with it. Melissa set my hair on fire once, because I cut hers in her sleep. We were kids! It's what we do. We mess up, we learn from it, we forgive and move on. You're not an exception."

Michael wipes dark tears away, leaving smears of smog behind, and mumbles a wet, "You really think he'd forgive me?"

Stanley feels compelled to smile at him, so he does. "I know so. In fact, I think this—" he gestures around them, "Is his way of showing you he already has, from wherever he is."

Michael shakes his head. "I wish I could believe you, Stanley, I really do. But I can't— I can't let my guard down. If his creations exist in this universe too, that... Means my father went down the same path as he did in my timeline. And if I never— If my brother didn't die because of me, that means this version of me—" he taps his finger on the screen, "Never found out. If there's any plausible reason I'm here, it's to stop him, all over again. In this universe, and in who knows how many others."

"You're allowed to live for yourself too, you know," he says. "For whatever reason, you're here. Are you going to let your father ruin your chance at starting from scratch when he may not even be around? You've shriveled under his shadow long enough!" Stanley's nostrils are flaring, his breath coming in puffs. "Maybe, Michael, this time, the reason you're not dead is to get to live in a world without him in it. Have you considered that? This could be your heaven just as easily as it could be your hell."

"Let's suppose your theory is true," Michael counters, in that tone that clearly implies he does not, in fact, suppose that. "Then why did I end up here, in this universe, back in this town and this very place at the exact right time to save you from yet another of his monstrosities? Explain that, Stanley, and maybe I'll hear you out."

Stanley raises a brow. "I already did, I think." He runs his palm over the patch of grass to his side, suddenly overcome by childish self-consciousness. "To meet a friend. Someone who gets what you've gone through, who isn't afraid of your past, or what the future may bring. I prayed for an angel, and got you. Is it too far-fetched to think I might just be the answer to your prayers in return?"

Michael gapes at him for... A concerning amount of time. Stanley debates shielding his face, then his stomach, then abandons the plan when it becomes blatant he doesn't have enough arms to protect every sensitive part of his body, even if Michael is about to take a swing at him. 

He doesn't hit him, though. Michael blinks, spins on his heel, and, gazing out into the junkyard, says, "We should probably take care of the doll that got away." 

Stanley sighs, giving him a fondly exasperated glare that he's glad Michael can't see with his back turned to him. 

At least it's not an outright objection. Small wins. 

"Sure," he says breezily, "What's the plan?" 

Michael shoots him a look of pure mischief. "It depends. How much do you value this job?" 

Stanley has to keep from bursting his stitches cackling. "Are you kidding? I'm done! Never setting foot in there again and you can quote me on that!"

Michael grins. "That's what I was hoping to hear. In that case..." He wiggles the lighter along with his singed brows. "I reckon these dolls—" he tips his head towards the tangled amalgamation of limp, contorted limbs and heads, "—Will make for great kindling when I burn this place to the ground."

Stanley's jaw drops. "Awesome! Uh, I mean—" He coughs. "Won't that get us in trouble?" 

Michael pockets the lighter. "Not if we don't get caught. I'm legally dead. And you—" he punctuates that by shooting fingerguns at Stanley, before offering his now free hand as leverage, "Are legally off-duty. They cannot blame you. If anyone asks, you were at home, sleeping soundly. Don't worry," he says, winking, "I won't tell if you don't."

Stanley gratefully accepts the assistance, holding on tight while he regains his balance and his feet remember how to stop wobbling. "Sounds great. I need to grab my jacket from the office anyway, since my shirt is..." He bites his lip. "... A little worse for wear. I didn't want to walk back in there alone."

"You're not walking anywhere, kid," Michael shoots back, stuffing dolls in every crevice of his cloak, and when he runs out of space, tossing the last two inside his hood. "Your might be back on your feet, but I'm not risking any of your stitches popping. Let's save the stairs for later, got it? I'll be right back." 

He ducks inside the building before Stanley can conclude whether he really means it.

There's a cloud overhead. It's white and thick, like a dollop of whipped cream, lazily drifting across the sky. Stanley watches it, and decidedly thinks about pancakes at the diner, and not about how long Michael has been down there. He focuses on his growling stomach, not on the way it's twisted into knots.

Hungry. He's hungry, not worried. 

Michael emerges from the maws of the facility, and Stanley can't seem to come up with an alternative name for the palpable relief that's washed over him.

"Hey, glad to see you're still standing, kid," he teases when he catches up to Stanley. "I'd half-expected to find you crumbled like a deck tower." 

And Stanley had half-expected to never find him at all, but he doesn't say that. Instead, he gives a stilted laugh, and wags his finger. "Don't jinx it, now."

Michael sticks his tongue out as he grips Stanley's jacket from where he had it slumped over his back and dangles it in the space between them. "Would be a horrible parting gift, wouldn't it?"

Stanley stiffens, shifts his weight from one foot to another. He still has to pause and marvel at how much lighter he feels now. "Right, about that..."

He extends his arm towards Michael, but not to take the jacket. Instead, he holds out his phone. 

Michael flicks his glowing irises down, then back up at Stanley. 

"What am I supposed to do with this?" 

Stanley shrugs, rising his shoulders up to his ears to conceal their red, hot tips. "A parting gift? It's got my home number in the contacts, and you know the pin already, so... I expect you to call when you wanna give it back, okay?"

Michael looks... Upset, like he's seen a ghost. Or, maybe, ghosts aren't what startles him anymore. Maybe it's the idea of human connection that's got him so utterly lost.

"No," he says, his voice quivering. "For your own good, don't get involved in this more than you already had to. If you do..." He casts his gaze downward. "You might never find a way back out. Don't go making a target of yourself. If I'm right... If my father really is still lurking in this universe—"

"Then you'll need a teammate to help you stop him. Making yourself the sacrifice won't save me. We both know I'm already a target. I'd rather be fighting— Whatever we're up against than spend the rest of my days running away."

Michael opens his mouth as though to protest... Then spits out a curse and grabs the phone with a flourish. 

"... I'll think about it."

Stanley hoots. "That's my man!" 

"Well," Michael says, hastily pulling his hood back over his head. Stanley doesn't tell him he caught his timid grin anyway. "We should leave. The fire should start being obvious soon, and we don't want to be anywhere near when it happens, so..."

He sighs. "I guess this is goodbye." 

Stanley shakes his head as he's sliding into his bomber jacket. "No. Not goodbye." He swipes two fingers out from his forehead in a salute. "Au revoir; until we meet again."


End file.
